


in absentia, or on the fickle nature of memories.

by mmmmmack



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, bioware can not stop my love of dalish culture, i will incorporate it into every character i make
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28856994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmmmack/pseuds/mmmmmack
Summary: She points to a specific part of the parchment. Sonny sucks in a breath through his teeth when he sees what she is referring to.“...However, it is important to note that some Theodosian cultures educate mages outside of the Circle of Magi. The historical thought is that because of cultural traditions [13], a Dalish or Avvar mage may be as skilled, if not more, than a Circle mage and in different, more powerful ways…”He bites his bottom lip, then pushes them together into a thin line. Then, with a slightly wistful smile, he turns to Ayla and bumps her shoulder.“Why would I get in trouble?” he whispers. “It’s true.”Sonny Surana has trouble remembering most of the childhood that was taken away from him, but if it makes life in Kinloch Hold any less miserable, both for him and the other apprentice mages, he supposes recalling the vague stories his grandmother told him growing up can't be too much of a blasphemous act. No matter what the Chantry tries to teach them.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	in absentia, or on the fickle nature of memories.

**Author's Note:**

> i've had a lot of big, complicated feelings about the Chantry and circles recently and this fic is a result of that. that, and I needed a reason to develop my surana's backstory and would you look at that, i managed to drag the dalish into it too :)
> 
> heavily, _heavily_ inspired by [this post](https://chantry-scholar.tumblr.com/post/632230054974357504/the-theory-of-arcanist-derangement-and-why-we) by @chantry-scholar on tumblr. i love that post so much and i knew i had to write something inspired by it as soon as i read it.

Sonny sits on his bed, the bottom bunk, and leans over a well-worn piece of parchment by the light of a single candle. His eyes are barely able to stay open, the burning from the dryness keeping him awake. He blinks a few times before shaking his head and returning to the task at hand. ‘On the Nature of Magic and the Necessity of Circles,’ reads the top of the paper in a messy, sprawling attempt at calligraphy. He sighs seeing the title again; he didn’t have a choice in the topic after an older apprentice had taken “scholastic liberties with his decision of diction,” whatever that meant. All Sonny knew was that he had to pour over heavy tomes that felt… preachy. He hadn’t had as much trouble with any assignment until this one.

But, with a final word and flick of his quill, it is finished. Finally.

“Can you write that?” comes a hushed voice from over his shoulder.

He moves the candle to the edge of the bed, illuminating the face of another elf. Sonny can’t remember her name, Ayla, he thinks; she’s younger than him, but only by a couple of years. The firelight plays upon tawny brown skin and pools in wide dark eyes. Nervous eyes.

He moves so that she can sit next to him. “You should be asleep, hm?”

“So should you,” her voice takes on a childish quality that’s matched with a pout, “but what if you get in trouble for that?”

She points to a specific part of the parchment. Sonny sucks in a breath through his teeth when he sees what she is referring to.

_“...However, it is important to note that some Theodosian cultures educate mages outside of the Circle of Magi. The historical thought is that because of cultural traditions [13], a Dalish or Avvar mage may be as skilled, if not more, than a Circle mage and in different, more powerful ways…”_

He bites his bottom lip, then pushes them together into a thin line. Then, with a slightly wistful smile, he turns to Ayla and bumps her shoulder.

“Why would I get in trouble?” he whispers. “It’s true.”

The younger elf pushes dense and wavy hair behind her ears and meets his eyes with a look of confusion. “It’s… true?”

Sonny nods and rolls the parchment into a tight cylinder, sticking it under his pillow. He then moves to the opposite end of the bed and places the candle between them, opening the book he had been writing on as a place to rest his elbows on as he leans forward conspiratorially. 

“I know for certain, I’ve met Dalish mages.”

“Really!” she sits up straight and exclaims a bit too loudly.

Sonny shushes her, holding his breath for a moment and listening for the heavy footfalls of templars. The moment stretches on for eternity but passes without confrontation. He lets out a soft sigh and holds one finger to his lips. The older elf takes her apologetic expression as proof that she was sorry enough and continues his explanation.

“My mother was one, and so was my grandmother.”

She interjects again, though more quietly this time. “And so are you?”

“I did not grow up amongst the Dalish,” he answers, shaking his head.

She seems sad at that, as if she understands the true meaning behind those words but only in the way a child understands when her parents are angry from the twitch of their brow. Something learned, yet not internalized as fact. She lays her hand on top of one of his in a rehearsed but sincere motion. It makes Sonny smiles despite the venom that fills his veins as he remembers the circumstances that brought him to Kinloch Hold. _Took him away from his family._

 _“Mamaela_ taught me some things, though, before I... “ he allows his sentence to taper off uncomfortably.

Ayla doesn’t seem to have picked up on the awkwardness as her eyes shine with a juvenile wonderment at his use of the foreign tongue. He blushes, though he doesn’t know from what. Her cheeks puff out and she bounces slightly, leaning ever closer to the light between them. 

“Like what?”

He makes a show of pretending to think and remember, but he does begin to indulge in his life before the Circle. The memories are hazy and muddled by the fear that snatched them from him, but a few come back in sporadic bursts as he tries to weave a coherent narrative for the girl.

* * *

The spring brings in hot, heavy air from outside. Despite the humidity, Sonny sits curled up on his grandmother’s lap, nearly asleep from the warmth. She has one arm around his back and the other carefully brushes through his then still long hair; the pair are seated in an old rocking chair by their only window. The combined rhythms of the brush and the rocking makes Sonny’s eyes heavy. His grandmother half sings half whispers an old lullaby to him. _Elgara vallas, da’len, melava somniar…_ the words cover him like a blanket.

He thinks it strange, though, that she chose to sing this one; usually, she only sang this when he’s scared or when he was exceptionally little. He’s six now, almost seven, he has no need for lullabies. But, he presses his body closer to her chest anyway, much too comfortable to put up a fuss. 

When the song finishes, she sets the brush down on a side table, causing Sonny to stir and sit up. She laughs at him, patting his back. She readjusts him on her lap, tutting at him as he opens his mouth to complain.

“Your hair is untangled, yes? Now, sit,” she chuckles, pointing to the space between her legs.

He climbs down from her lap and sits cross-legged on the floor beneath her, eyes shutting once again as her hands move to part his hair. His grandmother hums another old song, one he can’t recall, but the tune sounds sad and hopeful simultaneously.

“Your hair is growing, Sha’ahni,” she says.

He makes a quiet, affirmative sound and moves to lean into the touch. She chuckles again as she notices, but allows him the simple pleasure. They sit in silence for a while, the faint sounds of talking and the marketplace creating a comfortable ambiance. Then, Sonny asks a question to permit his grandmother a small happiness.

 _“Mamaela,_ what does my name mean?”

There is a barely noticeable pause in her work, but she picks up again and begins to explain; her smile is audible.

“We called you _sha’ahni_ because you came into the world smiling. You make everyone around you smile, so, you are called ‘happy friend,’” she knows that he already knows. This isn’t the first time that he’d asked, but the answering gives his grandmother such joy, he pretends he’s forgotten so he can learn again. 

He feels a zigzag pattern gets created in his scalp and his grandmother starts to braid one half of his hair to his scalp. He asks her more questions he already knows the answers to: What are the tattoos on your face? What are the animals you put on my quilt? Tell me about your clan?

She didn’t like it when he called it _your_ clan. “Our clan,” she would say, sticking a finger into his chest. “Yours too.” She did that with most of the Dalish things she told him, always reminding him that they are _his_ things too. 

He felt more Dalish than not somedays.

* * *

“...she said not all Dalish use staffs, that they’re trained to channel the Fade without them,” he hadn’t noticed that he’d been rambling for a while. His candle was nearly gone.

He also didn’t notice that he had amassed a crowd of attentive listeners. Almost every bunk was standing or sitting around his own, paying close attention to his explanation of what would be blasphemy if anyone heard them.

“Oh... well, Ayla,” he starts sheepishly, “I think that’s enough for tonight then.”

Quiet sounds of protest spread around the room, but with a little motivation, most of the young apprentices return to their bunks without complaint. Ayla remains seated in front of his pillow, though, eyes still wide and shining. A smile slowly overtakes her features and she sits up on her knees excitedly.

“Do you know any more?” she whisper-screams.

“I do,” that is the truth, in a sense. He _does_ remember more and surely the library would have more supplemental texts to fill in the gaps; however, the memories are spotty. He was allowed 10 years with his family before being wrestled away from them, but so much of it is hazy and others of it are too disjointed and decontextualize to make sense. But, he finds that the more he forces himself to dig up, the more is willing to come to the surface.

“Can you tell me more sometime?”

The younger elf smiles brightly at him, hopeful. There’s something familiar about her body language, the way her hands are balled at her sides to keep herself from moving too much, the way her eyes crinkle slightly and look almost closed from her smile. A fuzzy memory comes back to him; he’s very young, maybe three or four years old, and he toddles around in a mock chase after his mother’s skirts. His grandmother sits away from the chaos in her wooden rocking chair, but she laughs along with them, eyes nearly closed and hands balled in her lap around a quilt she was making.

A shy grin comes to his lips as the memory replays in his mind. He returns to Ayla and the present moment, nodding. “Yes, of course, whenever you want.”


End file.
